


say you wanna dance

by resistate



Category: Canadian Ice Dancing RPF, Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Banter, Cheating, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 14:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resistate/pseuds/resistate
Summary: Marie-France is very sorry because she’s sure Whitney is a very nice girl, but this is the truth: her moves and Pat’s moves are way better than Whitney’s moves.





	say you wanna dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kindness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kindness/gifts).



> This fic is set at some indeterminate time within the first few years of Marie-France and Patrice's partnership.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, Kindness! I was super excited to see that someone had requested MF and Patch for Yuletide and excited that I had time in the end to write you a treat. Your prompts were amazing and I’m thankful to have had this excuse to write only some of the best, most extra ice dancers of all time. You deserve all good things and I hope Yuletide is good to you this year and always.
> 
> Thank you to my beta reader, @/weavirtue :D

***

‘Your boyfriend’s kind of a jerk, isn’t he?’ says Pat, taking a long pull on his beer.

Marie-France laughs, delighted. It’s such a bizarre thing for Pat to say. ‘Is he? Where did you hear that?’ She twists and scans the crowded dance floor, but she doesn’t see her boyfriend anywhere. He must still be in the washroom. She turns back to Pat. ‘I don’t think it’s true, you know?’

Pat shrugs and pushes the bowl of peanuts on the counter toward her. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, buttoned at the cuffs so it doesn’t even ride up his arms very much when he moves. Marie-France thinks it’s a shame, because it’s overly warm in the bar and because Pat has great muscle definition that no one’s getting to see. She grabs a handful of peanuts. Her boyfriend comes back, and Pat starts a conversation about cars. Because Pat still likes fixing cars in his spare time (even though they have funding now and he doesn’t have to, and even though he and Marie-France have extended debates about how much free time either of them should really have) and because—here she admits to herself she’s at a loss. Because her boyfriend owns a car? Marie-France doesn’t know how this is working as well as it is, but she’s glad Pat’s making the effort. She joins in to discuss the the relative merit of cassette decks versus CD players because choosing the music is obviously the best part about driving and silently congratulates herself for thinking to invite her skating partner out with them tonight.

***

‘Are you sure your boyfriend isn’t a jerk?’ says Pat, mouth right next to her ear. She wouldn’t be able to hear him otherwise because the dance floor is so loud and chaotic, full of people letting loose and having a good time. Pat’s breath is warm but Marie-France shivers anyway. She pulls just far enough away to give her the momentum to knock her hip into Pat’s thigh, then grabs his hand and spins him away; then pulls him in close. ‘He’s definitely not a jerk,’ Marie-France says, mouth right next to Pat’s ear and this time it’s Pat who shivers.

She spins him away once more and raises her arms over her head, finds the rhythm of the song again. To be fair she hadn’t ever lost it. It’s too loud to hear anything out here, and she fucking loves this song; she wants to dance with somebody too, and her moves and Pat’s moves are way better than Whitney’s moves. Marie-France is very sorry because she’s sure Whitney is a very nice girl, but this is the truth. She’s danced to this song probably a million times, but tonight she choreographs on the fly because she knows Pat will be able to appreciate it. She knows he’ll be able to keep up, and he does.

He's unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves by the end of the song, but Marie-France can’t stop looking at his face. Pat’s eyes are big and bright and she knows that there are crinkles at the corners that make it look like his whole face is smiling, even if it’s too dark in the bar to see it. Marie-France can feel the smile busting up her own face.

Her boyfriend comes back with three bottles of water, and she downs one as quickly as she can before dragging her boyfriend out onto the dance floor.

***

Her boyfriend has to work the next day, so he cuts out around eleven, and management pulls the plug on the music at exactly midnight, leaving Marie-France and Pat huddled together at the bar, catching their breath after several more rounds of dancing. Well, catching their breath, and doing shots. They clink their tiny glasses together and the alcohol slides down Marie-France’s throat, quick and easy. It burns but in a joyful way.

Joyful things make her think of Pat, which is annoying to Marie-France because she’s not supposed to think about Pat. She remembers deciding this. She’s tipsy enough that she can’t remember why, exactly, but she does remember deciding very seriously. She also remembers that she has a bone to pick with Pat and kicks his shin lightly with the toe of her boot. ‘Hey. Why do you keep suggesting my boyfriend is a jerk?’

Pat’s eyes go even wider than they already are, and he signals two more to the barkeep.

Marie-France laughs. ‘Just answer the question, Pat.’

Pat doesn’t answer the question, just downs one of the shots that appears on the counter in front of them. He signals two more again, and although Marie-France can’t help but admire him very much, he still hasn’t answered her question. It’s not like Pat to not to say what’s on his mind. Marie-France scoots her barstool closer and ghosts the back of her hand across his forehead, mostly but not entirely as a joke. Pat swats her hand away. Marie-France raises her eyebrows.

‘You really wanted to dance to that one song and he didn’t want to dance with you,’ Pat mumbles, mostly to his shot glass.

‘But he had just lit up and he is far too polite to smoke on the dance floor, ever,’ Marie-France counters.

Pat shrugs and studies the advertisement for a beer on his coaster. Marie-France looks at him and considers whether to change the subject. He’s attractive when he’s taciturn but he’s also attractive when he’s talkative. Marie-France could really go either way here.

‘It was too bad, however,’ she tells Pat. ‘Because I am practically like, contractually obligated to dance to that song, you know.’

Pat looks at her, a sudden smile on his face. ‘Because in a former life you were a Whitney impersonator, is that why?’

‘Who’s to say I’m not a Whitney impersonator, still?’

‘We have funding now,’ Pat says. ‘You don’t need to hold down 47 different day jobs anymore, Marie.’

The way he says just ‘Marie,’ simple and unembellished, seems shockingly intimate. Marie-France’s heart does a funny little jump in her chest. She frowns, because definitely she does not have time for this. She downs one of the shots in front on her and decides, in the aftermath, to ignore everything except Pat, on the next barstool over. ‘Gotta say, this one is more of a night job, you know?’

Pat laughs, sudden and loud, and Marie-France realises that it’s all well and good that she’s telling her thoughts to get in line, but she probably shouldn’t be staring openly at his throat, also. She slides the remaining shot across the counter and puts her mind to catching up instead.

***

Marie-France and Pat are still talking at last call, about music and skating and Pat’s inexplicable love for her mother’s cooking (he’s been over to hers like, once; Marie-France doesn’t get it). She really should invite him out more often: he gets along with her boyfriend, at least to his face; his hot takes on the ISU are hilarious when they’re not depressing and anyway it’s good to have someone to cry into your tequila with, this is very important in life; and he thinks about music all the time, almost as much as Marie-France does.

They’re still talking when they get kicked out at closing, at least until they step outside and the cold Montreal night punches the air straight out of Marie-France’s lungs. She stumbles into Pat with the shock of it and he wraps an arm around her waist, holding her up upright.

‘I should walk you home,’ Pat says, and Marie-France isn’t so drunk that she doesn’t know that Pat is really asking a question. She looks up at him, at the serious expression on his face and the softest smile in his eyes. He hasn’t let go of her waist and she swears she can feel the heat of his touch through the layers of her t-shirt and sweater and winter coat.

She remembers now why she never invites Pat to come out.

The streets in this neighbourhood are busy, full of pedestrians in the same predicament as she and Pat, a steady stream of cars zipping along in both directions. There’s a Christmas tree in the window of the tire store across the street from the bar, all lit up. It’s a fire hazard, definitely, thinks Marie-France, but its lights are bright and chaotic and seem, in the dark night, to promise everything.

‘I’m thinking about it,’ says Marie-France. She ducks out of Pat’s hold and stands in front of him on her tiptoes. She grabs the ends of his scarf and uses it as leverage to plant a brief, soft kiss on his lips.

Pat hums, and she wraps an arm around his waist, because it’s not like he’s not drunk, and when she glances up, she can see that his whole face is smiling.

‘You should walk me home,’ Marie-France says.

***

It’s quiet out by the time they reach Marie-France’s neighbourhood. Cars pass by only every once in while and she and Pat are the only people still out and about on the streets. In the spaces between traffic she could believe that she and Pat are the only people in the city, or maybe even the world.

They loiter on the sidewalk outside Marie-France’s. It’s late enough that almost all the windows in the street are dark. It’s cold enough that their breath forms clouds when it leaves their mouths.

‘It’s too bad we don’t have enough funding for me to not like, still live with my mom,’ Marie-France says.

‘Yeah?’ says Pat. He brushes Marie-France’s hair off her face, the scratchy wool of his mitten tickling her cheek.

‘Yeah,’ says Marie-France and it’s barely out of her when Pat’s mouth descends on hers and he’s kissing her like he’s trying to chase the word out with his tongue or something. Marie-France kisses him back. They take a short break, gasping for air, and she kisses him again.

Then they stand there on the sidewalk, grasping each other’s mittened hands and staring at each other.

‘You should call me ‘Marie’ all the time,’ says Marie-France, finally.

‘Yeah?’ Pat says.

‘I knew you were going to say that,’ says Marie-France. ‘Of course I mean ‘yeah,’ you know? I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. I’m not a jerk.’

It hits her then, what she just said, and she doubles over laughing.

‘Yeah, but you’re not going to have a boyfriend for very much longer, I don’t think,’ Pat says.

Marie-France studies Pat’s face. He’s looking at her like he always looks at her, really; like he wants to kiss her forever and never, ever stop. Well, that’s fine. Marie-France wants to kiss Pat too, and she’s tired of pretending she doesn’t. She’s tired of dancing with Pat and not dancing-dancing with him. Whitney knows. She tugs his toque down over his ears so they won’t get cold. ‘No?’

Pat shrugs. ‘I just don’t think it’s working out between you guys, you know?’ He pauses, then adds, in a quiet, almost tentative voice, ‘Marie.’

Marie-France’s heart flips in her chest, like it wants to dance too.

‘I think you’re right,’ she says, and kisses Pat once more before heading inside, humming along very softly to the Whitney Houston song playing on a loop in her head.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ by Whitney Houston. I’m sorry this story has no actual moves, on or off the dance floor. MF and Patch’s moves > Whitney’s moves > my moves, truly.
> 
> I was on the fence about having MF use ‘hot take’ but dictionary.com informs me that the phrase was first recorded in 1995-2000 which is very conveniently the same time period during which this fic is set. And lbr if anyone singlehandedly invented language it was Marie-France Dubreuil. 
> 
> I have a great many feelings about MF and Patch, please come yell with me on Twitter about how fucking adorable and extra they are: @/mfparaph


End file.
